Ride Me Instead
by Skalidra
Summary: Bruce has always had a nasty habit of going out on patrol when he has injuries that should keep him in. Most times Alfred keeps him in line, but this time there's no one close enough to actually get in his way but Dick, and he almost doesn't manage it. What he does manage is to be in the car with Bruce, in civilian clothes. Now he just has to figure out how to get Bruce to stop.


Welcome! So, this is another of the 100 prompts; number 50, 'Breaking the Rules'. My good friend Firefright asked me for some BruDick, and I was happy to oblige. XD (This is actually my first story about BruDick that wasn't part of a threesome. Go figure!)

 **Warnings** for this include : Explicit sex, sex in/on a car, and rough sex. I mean, all the same thing, not three separate instances.

* * *

"Bruce, you're not even listening to me."

He gets a grunt in answer, as Bruce buckles on one boot. If Bruce thinks he can't _see_ the little hitch of movement as he straightens up, the stitched together stab wound below his right arm pulling, then he's adding 'delusional' right up there next to 'stupidly stubborn.' It's a nasty angle of a wound, one prone to pull open at exactly the kind of movements they usually need to do during a night, which means it's a remarkably _stupid_ wound to be ignoring.

"Take the suit off," he tries to order. "Bruce, come on. Gotham can live for _one_ night without you out there."

The other boot goes on.

"If you've got anything that needs to be done pass it off to Babs, Jason—" he gets a sharp look for that one "—Kate, Cass, _Duke_. We have _so_ many allies out there right now, Bruce, I'm sure _one_ of them can do whatever you might have got lined up. Hell, you could probably recruit at least three if you need to. You know Tim's back in town, or Damian's just over in Metropolis." He waits a second, for any of that to go through, and then snaps, " _I'm_ here too, you know. I can handle it."

"I don't doubt your competence," Bruce states flatly, but he's also pulling on one of his gloves and hooking it into place. "I'm going."

"No, you're not. Do I _have_ to call Alfred down here?" The threat rings true; he gets another sharp glance. "Because I will."

Bruce peers up at the stairs, the elevator, then towards the computer and its communications system. "He wouldn't be fast enough."

The other glove goes on, and Bruce is already turning, heading for the Batmobile and out to get himself hurt even worse. He makes a split-second judgment call, because as aggravating as Bruce is he's also right. Alfred won't get down here fast enough to stop Bruce from going out. But _he_ can.

He's a fraction of a second behind Bruce, and already jumping as Bruce settles into the driver's seat. A moment later, _he's_ sitting in it too, pushed almost uncomfortably close and straddling Bruce's legs, his hands gripping the cape between his fingers and twisting tight. There's not really enough room for two people in the driver's seat, especially not ones as built as them, so they're barely an inch apart. Bruce actually looks surprised for a second, before his eyes narrow, jaw setting down tight.

"Dick—"

"You want to go out?" he challenges. "You go out with me. Civilian clothes, no mask, sitting in your lap the whole time. You're not getting out of this car, Bruce; I will _not_ let you get yourself hurt out there because you're too stubborn to know when to rest."

He knows he's in trouble when a sharp, calculating edge slides into Bruce's eyes.

"The Batmobile is capable of plenty all on its own," Bruce points out, and one hand slips to the side, hits the button behind him that closes the top. He has to duck his head a tiny bit, but it seals. "I don't _have_ to get out of the car."

"Are you—?" The car starts with a low rumble. "Are you serious right now?" Bruce is looking around his shoulders, flicking switches and getting ready to leave the Cave. "Bruce, _no_. Turn the car off, get out of the suit, and knock it off. You shouldn't—"

The car spins around, and he sucks in a sharp breath and tenses as it takes off. Bruce is looking past his shoulder, hands under his arms and on the wheel, and for a couple seconds it's all he can do to just cling on and flatten himself out against Bruce's bulk. The suit is familiar against him, but still not entirely uncomfortable. That's what gets him to push back about an inch, to pull his head away from Bruce's shoulder just a bit and twist it to look up. Bruce is still just staring past him, steering, and he twists his fingers more securely in Bruce's cape and frown for a second.

"I can't believe you're doing this," he says, and then sighs. "Yeah, no, actually I can. You're not getting out of this car, Bruce. I meant that."

"So I won't."

He watches for a second, then says, "It's kind of _amazing_ how much I don't believe you." But, he's never been one to back away from a challenge, and if Bruce wants to push how far he's willing to go, he'll meet him. "Alright, let's make sure you don't."

He lowers his hands from the cape, worming them down in between their bodies so he can find all those latches and hooks that Bruce just finished putting on. It's Bruce's turn to suck in a breath, though it's more contained than his was, less of a gasp. He gets Bruce's suit open where it needs to be, reaches in and expertly — they've started things in the suits enough times that he knows this one intimately — disconnects and removes the cup. He throws it into the passenger seat, then wiggles his hands back down and slips one into the opening, cupping Bruce's cock equally expertly.

"Dick," Bruce starts, voice just a touch breathy, but definitely warning, "that's very dangerous. You—"

"Oh, you don't get to talk about _my_ actions being dangerous right now," he counters. "If you want to do this safely you can turn the car around, put it on autopilot, and we can do this on a bed instead. If you want to keep being reckless; I can be reckless too."

He can hear Bruce's hands tighten on the wheel, see the tension in the neck he's breathing on and the clench of that jaw. "It's not the same. This is a radically different level of—"

"Yeah, _one_ of our plans is almost definitely going to end in torn stitches. Somehow — testament to the level of stubborn you're being — it's _not_ the one that involves distracting the driver of a speeding vehicle." He strokes a little more purposefully, and there's no mistaking the fact that Bruce is still getting hard, despite his protests. "You could pull over, of course, which would solve both these problems."

Bruce glances down, then slowly grits out, "You're serious."

He pauses for a second, so he can look directly at Bruce and say, softer, "I'm not letting you hurt yourself out there."

Bruce, apparently not quite done being combative, snaps, "So you're going to put us both in danger instead?"

He frowns and immediately counters, "No, because I trust you not to get me hurt. If you _really_ thought you couldn't drive at the same time, you'd pull over. You'd risk yourself — which is the _problem_ — but you won't risk me. Sound about right?"

Bruce frowns too, and then gives one sharp, irritated exhale of breath. He feels the car slow, faintly hears the rough sound of dirt or gravel or something underneath the tires instead of asphalt, and doesn't quite let himself smile. Celebrating a victory over Bruce's steamrolling stubbornness is just about the worst way to get him to accept the loss gracefully.

"So," he says instead, as the car stops, "are we staying here for a bit, or heading back to the Cave? Or, I mean," he wiggles a bit in Bruce's lap, pulling back the couple of inches he can to look Bruce in the eye, "if you've got any fantasies…" He lets it hang, but offers a wide smile.

Bruce just stares at him for a second, one eyebrow slowly rising. "Fantasies?" is what finally gets asked, after he waits out the silence.

He keeps his smile, keeps his hands fairly still as he raises an eyebrow right back. "Like you've never had fantasies involving this car. Come on, Bruce. I know you a _little_ better than that."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Bruce denies, but then a moment later he feels Bruce move, hears the flick of switches as the car beneath them rumbles to life again. It starts to move, but then Bruce's hands are on his back, cupping his ass with both hands.

Autopilot. Victory.

"Liar," he counters, fondly. "Everybody's got fantasies about the car. It's a family thing."

Bruce leans a fraction forward, and he meets it so Bruce can brush lips over his jaw. "I think," is murmured against his skin, "that was more information than I ever needed to know. Nor do I want to know how _you_ know it."

"Various alcoholic situations," he murmurs back, turning his head a bit to actually catch a kiss. Soft, lingering. "So what are yours?" he asks, once they part.

Bruce squeezes his ass for a moment, pulls him down and closer. "Why don't you tell me yours instead?"

He gives a small laugh, shakes his head a bit. "You never want to be the first one to give up control, huh?" He punctuates the question with a firm stroke of his hand, wishing he had a bit more room to work with, but simultaneously grateful that he _does_ have so much experience working in tight situations. No puns intended.

Bruce grazes teeth against his jaw, lightly bites down on it — not hard enough to leave a mark, of course — and then says, "I thought you rather _liked_ losing control to me, Dick."

He rolls his hips down, gives a quiet groan and tilts his head to give Bruce more room to work with. "I like making you lose control too, you know. it's like a prize for doing especially good work." Bruce nibbles at his neck, along the path of one tendon, and he lets his head fall even further, gives a pleased sigh. "Not that I don't _like_ all of this normal stuff too. It's just extra special when I get your higher brain functions to short out."

Bruce slides a hand up his back, glove slightly rough as it pushes underneath his shirt, but seems to be too involved with not-quite marking up his neck to actually respond. He gets a grunt, which could be anything from agreement, to denial that he ever 'shorts out', to a demand to stop talking. He steals a glance out of the window, seeing darkened road and trees rushing past. Then, a moment later, the car slows, turns, and heads into the momentarily unveiled entrance to the Cave.

"Alright," he agrees, arching his back the tiny bit he can and stroking again. "I've had a couple repeat fantasies about you bending me over the hood. Suit's a bonus, but not necessary."

He feels that little moment of whiplash tension through Bruce's frame, but the voice that comes out is a calmly amused tone when he says, "There's surveillance in the Cave; I'm not the only one who looks at that."

He snickers before he can help himself. "If you want to protect _virgin eyes_ it's way too late. I mean, how much stuff have we done in there before? And how much do you think you deleted before anyone saw?" Bruce grunts something a little more displeased, but he just shakes his head and smiles. "As long as we clean up, no one's going to care. We'd just have to be quick, before anyone finishes patrol and ends up walking in on us. We're also _hardly_ the only ones to fool around down here, nobody's got room to judge."

Bruce gives a tiny groan into his throat. "Don't remind me."

This laugh, he manages to contain. Barely.

"Your turn," he pushes, as the car starts to slow. "What are your thoughts about the car?"

It stops and the hood pulls back, exposing them to the lights of the Cave again as the car shuts off. Bruce's hands move to grip his hips, and he smiles back, thankful that Bruce hadn't quite gotten to putting on the cowl. It makes it a whole lot easier to figure out exactly what Bruce is thinking when he's not locked behind the persona of 'Batman.' Not that Bruce isn't difficult to read sometimes all on his own, but it's one less thing between them, and he can use all the advantages he can get.

Like when Bruce just deflects, "They're not as interesting."

Could he argue? Yes. But _not_ arguing is apparently going to get one of his older — older than he'll be telling Bruce, anyway — fantasies fulfilled, so it's probably not worth it to try and force Bruce to reveal something. This time.

Bruce lifts him, as if to help him get out of the car, and he quickly rolls over into the passenger seat instead. "You first," he says, with a bright smile that's only a little bit fake. He's not _entirely_ sure that if he gets out of the car first, Bruce won't close it again and take off before he can get back in.

He's _fairly_ sure, but not enough to risk it.

Bruce stares at him for several long, unimpressed moments, and then flicks his gaze upwards with a huff and climbs out of the car. He cheerfully follows, vaulting over the side and then catching Bruce's arm to reel him back in from where he was turning away. He doesn't know exactly where he was going, but it's definitely better to have him close again. It only takes a couple small steps and another pull for Bruce to be 'pinning' him back against the hood of the car, the metal pressing into the backs of his thighs and Bruce's bulk framing him, only increased by the suit.

The armor is still open at the front, so he easily slips his hand back inside with a small grin, as he lifts his other hand and wraps it around the back of Bruce's neck. Bruce presses forward, hands gripping his thighs and lifting him — he hops a bit to help — up onto the hood. As always, Bruce fits just about perfectly between his thighs. He wraps his legs around Bruce's hips and pulls him that fraction of an inch closer that he's capable of, keeping Bruce 'trapped' with his legs the same way Bruce is 'pinning' him to the car. That is, not even a little if either of them actually wanted any kind of distance.

Bruce is hard in his hand, and he grins a little wider, opens his mouth to prompt or encourage. Before he can say more than about half a syllable Bruce is leaning in and kissing him, cutting off his words with an all too clever tongue and two confident, still-gloved hands pushing his shirt up. He makes a pleased sound, not entirely against the change of direction, and obligingly lets go in preparation for Bruce tugging the shirt off. He can feel the mouth pressed to his curve in a smirk, and then one of those hands is pressing solidly against the middle of his chest and pushing him back. Not hard, but firm enough that he doesn't fight being pressed down against the hood of the car.

The metal is cold against his back, all the way up to where his shirt is bunched up beneath his underarms. Bruce's one hand is steady against his chest, as the other slides down the planes of his chest and pops the button on his jeans. Contrary to how most people interact with him, Bruce's gaze is fixed on his face, studying his expression instead of looking at any of the skin he just bared. That little fact is always enough to make fondness swell in his chest, and he smiles. Soft, a little hint of how unbelievably much he's come to love Bruce, despite and _because_ of all of his flaws.

He gets a flicker of a smile back, and that's _more_ than enough.

Bruce leans down, pulling down the zipper of his jeans even as that weight settles perfectly over him, mouth finding his again. He raises his hands, tangling one in Bruce's hair as he sets his other to work disabling some of the latches holding together Bruce's suit. To start with, the ones holding on the cape. He can't quite reach the lower ones from this angle, so Bruce is going to have to handle actually getting enough off to make this work, but he can get a few extra pieces while they're busy.

"I thought you liked the suit," Bruce says against his lips, with a touch of amusement. Simultaneously, his jeans and briefs get tugged down over his hips.

"I said it was a bonus," he corrects. "It's not actually very practical."

Bruce guides his legs up one at a time to get the jeans off them, and he lets it happen. "Neither was stopping me from going out by sitting on my lap in the car."

"It worked, didn't it?" He parts his legs again so he can wrap them back around Bruce's waist, skin to armor this time. "You didn't give me much time to come up with a different plan."

He just gets a grunt, before one of Bruce's hands is wrapping around his cock. Gentle, mindful of the rough fingertips of the gloves so it's more of a rhythmic squeezing than any kind of stroking. They've all made _that_ mistake at least once; most of them aren't masochistic or forgetful enough to do it again.

The cape slithers down off of Bruce's back, getting momentarily caught on his legs, and he turns his divided attention to the catches for the actual suit instead. Bruce paints a trail of kisses down his jaw and neck, grazing teeth across his skin but not actually biting down; he's always careful not to leave marks a normal t-shirt won't hide. He tilts his head away to give more access, stifling the automatic groan of protest he wants to give when Bruce lets go of his cock. There are other, theoretically better things that hand could be doing so he'll take the loss. Besides, at least one of those gloves is going to need to come off if this is going where he thinks it is.

He hears the impact of a glove on the hood somewhere to his left, before there are bare fingertips stroking down his side, sliding along his skin with gentle pressure for just a couple moments before pulling away again. The other glove seems to follow the fate of the first one, and then he hears the faint snap of one of the pouches on Bruce's utility belt. That gets a grin from him, and he turns his head to catch Bruce's mouth again as he imagines the retrieval of one of the one-time packets of lubrication. There _are_ other uses for it, more practical ones, but it certainly doesn't hurt that Bruce just happens to carry it when they mess around still in uniform.

One hand pushes his thighs open a touch, before there's the slick touch of fingers sliding between his cheeks. Bruce doesn't waste time teasing — for _once_ — and he rocks his hips into the immediate slide of the single finger eagerly. Bruce hums something against his mouth that's probably a reprimand for him to be patient, he counters by tugging loose one of the more important catches holding the outer armor on so it starts to hang off. After that it's just one more clicked-together catch before it falls off completely. It takes him longer to find that catch than he'd like though, considering he's doing it blindly, one-handed, and with some... distractions to work through.

It also falls directly onto his chest, which is a bit of an impact even though it didn't fall all that far. He frowns a little bit, pulling his hand out of Bruce's hair so he can tug the armor off and throw it to the side. It still leaves Bruce in the undersuit, but that one's a whole lot less work to take off. Bruce slides his free hand in underneath his back, lifting him into a slight arch at the same time as a second finger nudges against his hole. He gives a little gasp, but pushes himself to relax, to bear down and let the second one slide in with only a very slight burn of a stretch.

"In a hurry?" he asks, slightly breathless in all the best ways.

"Too much?" is Bruce's immediate response, instead of an actual answer to his question.

"No, no. I'm good." He grasps at Bruce's sides, sliding his fingers along the smoother texture of the undersuit. "Just curious; usually you like to be slow."

Bruce doesn't answer, so he makes his own conclusions during the duration of the next kiss. Bruce can be rougher — some _very_ good memories there — he can be domineering, he can even be dangerous when he wants to be, but his preferred method of any of that is still slow. Bruce has always preferred making him writhe and beg by working him higher and higher rather than by taking him fast and hard. It's not unheard of, but usually...

He laughs when their mouths part, finds the zipper at the back of Bruce's neck and starts to pull it down. "You're worried about us getting caught," he guesses.

The grunt, and the distinct _lack_ of answer, tells him he's absolutely right.

He smiles, slides one hand up the length of Bruce's spine as it's revealed. "Relax; we've got plenty of time. Hours before anyone's back, and you're underestimating Alfred's magical ability to never walk in on anyone. We're fine." His smile edges towards wicked. "Not that I'm complaining; it kind of goes with the whole fantasy."

Bruce's mouth quirks into a small smirk. "Does it now?"

"Did you _really_ think any fantasy about having sex over a car hood was going to be slow and sweet?" he teases, running his fingers through Bruce's hair as he pushes down into those two fingers. "Whatever you want to do is good; it's just fantasy, you know I'm pretty flexible about things like that."

Bruce smirks a little bit more obviously, but _doesn't_ go for the obvious pun about his flexibility. Instead, those fingers twist inside him, curl, and he sucks in a sharp little breath at the hard, deliberate press to his prostate. "If this is going to be faster, I'll have to put in some extra effort."

The hand on his back slips away, lowering him back to the hood of the car. Bruce slides the undersuit off his one arm, then briefly pulls the two fingers out of him to strip it all the way off his torso to hang at his waist. Then the fingers are almost immediately back inside him, moving quicker but lingering on the stroke to his prostate with every inwards push. He squirms, grabbing Bruce's sides to ground himself as his head tilts back, mouth open in the beginning of panting. He knows he's entirely doomed when Bruce's other hand slides around his cock, touch gentle enough not to be seriously trying to get him off but more than enough to help wind him higher.

"Probably shouldn't have said anything," he breathes, as he arches towards that hand and digs his blunted nails into Bruce's skin a little bit.

Bruce chuckles, painting kisses down the length of his neck again, and then onto his chest. His breath catches when there's a hot exhalation over one of his nipples, and then he gives a quiet moan when that too-clever tongue flickers over it immediately afterwards. He pushes up, wanting more, but Bruce is moving over to do the same thing to the other one. He makes himself let go of Bruce's sides, raising his hands up higher so the reach is less awkward. One hand tangles in that short black hair, and the other clutches at one of Bruce's shoulders.

It's an easy, practiced thing to just let himself give into sensation. Bruce is a master at the art of playing his body now, and he's had just as much practice with just letting Bruce have him. He can do all kinds of things to get Bruce as worked up as he will be, but honestly the best one he's ever found is just to let himself give all of the reactions that Bruce is searching for. Every moan, every arch, every sigh. Bruce enjoys nothing so much as seeing someone lost to pleasure at his hands; as far as he understands it's something about being able to play someone else with that kind of mastery. Just one more facet of Bruce's controlling nature coming out to play.

By the time Bruce is fucking him with three fingers there's a small puddle of his own pre-come on his stomach, milked out almost ruthlessly by the massage of his prostate, and he can't bring himself to stay _still_. Bruce's other hand has abandoned his cock entirely, instead pressed over one of his hips to hold him down through the pleasure. While there's nothing on his neck, or the tops of his shoulders, Bruce has left marks across some of his chest. Nothing that couldn't be mistaken for an actual bruise at a glance, not that anyone sees him shirtless except other people in the hero community. Granted, those are the ones that are going to know the difference between a bruise and a hickey, and probably tease him for them.

Jason especially.

"Bruce," he gasps, arching what he's allowed to and twisting the hair between his fingers. It's hard not to pull, hard not to drag Bruce in as close as he can possibly get him, but he's had practice at that too. Give Bruce room to work and he'll do _wonders_ , and that's worth more than being a little bit closer. "Please, _please_."

Bruce rumbles out a sound against his throat, pressing a little more firmly against his hip. "Ready?" is the simple question.

"More than," he manages to say, mostly clearly. "Come on, Bruce."

He can feel the flicker of a smirk, before Bruce is pulling back, pulling the fingers out of him, shaking his hands off with only a little bit of effort. He stares up, almost wanting to ask for Bruce to come _back_ even though logically he knows there are certain steps in between that need to happen for this to go anywhere, but then there are hands gripping his waist and pulling him up to sitting. He blinks, startled, and Bruce leans in to kiss him again.

A few moments later, when they part, Bruce comments, "I believe you said bent _over_ , not on top of."

His breath catches, for a second he just stares, and then he presses his forehead to Bruce's and just grins. "Yeah, yeah I did."

Bruce steps back, lifting him off the car and setting him carefully on his feet. He lets himself be turned around, and then just as carefully pressed down over the hood of the car. It's warm from his skin, but there are bits of cold metal that he wasn't quite on top of before, and they nip at him. His legs are slightly bent to make the angle work, and _oh_ his cock is pressed down between his stomach and the car and he hadn't quite realized how _smooth_ the Batmobile is.

One of Bruce's hands presses down between his shoulder blades, heavy weight pinning him in place, and he spreads his hands out across the metal beneath them, closing his eyes to just _feel_. Bruce's other hand is pushing his legs apart, firm pressure on the inside of his thighs and he obliges, arching his low back just a bit. It makes his cock slide against the hood, and he gives a breathy moan at the sensation of it.

He feels the brush of fabric against his legs, then the push of a body between them. It's easy to just relax, to let the blunt pressure of Bruce's cock just push right into him and fill him full, the slide of it a delicious, drawn out sensation. He can't really rock his hips back, not with how he's pinned down, but he does his best. Bruce gets fully seated — he always forgets just how _deep_ it feels from the back — and then leans down over him, mouth pressing against his back, his shoulders.

He gives himself a few seconds to get used to it, and then rocks back the little bit he can and murmurs, "Go ahead."

Bruce doesn't waste any more time after his permission is given. Bruce's second hand joins the first, pressing down against his back, and then he feels the roll of hips. Out and in; shallow for now, just testing. He gives an encouraging moan that's only slightly exaggerated, to convince Bruce that he can just go for it. That's what he gets too, after that first moment. Bruce slides a hand up, wraps it in his hair, and _fucks_ him. His moans are anything but exaggerated after that.

His cock slides against the car with every thrust, and he spreads his legs wider, twists against the pin, pushes his hands against the car just to _feel_ it. Bruce is animalistic above him, all force and restrained grunts, as he always is when they actually get down to business. At least, when he's not still held back and choosing to take him slowly, methodically, until he _begs_. Those are the nights that he loves the most, even though they take _everything_ out of him. He can only handle a night like that every once in awhile, but when he can it's _incredible_. Other nights, he loves times like these just as much. Fantasies, kink, or just the plain, incredible feeling of Bruce over and inside him.

Bruce leans farther down into him, hips meeting his ass with a loud slap on every thrust, breath hot against his shoulder. The hand in the center of his back lightens, slides around and underneath his chest and pulls him back a couple inches, until he's pressed to Bruce's chest. He pulls a hand off of the car to clutch at Bruce's arm instead, arching back into him and finally opening his eyes so he can stare blindly outwards at the Cave. Not that much else matters to him but the feeling of Bruce's body against him, the dampness of sweat on both of their frames, the curl and slight tug of the fingers still in his hair…

He shudders, throat catching on a groan, eyes flickering as his body does its very best to push him over the edge without actual touch to his cock. The car is good, it's a sensation he has no other memory for and it feels _incredible_ because of that, and he _can_ come without direct touch if everything else is good enough, but… _but_ …

"Bruce!" he calls, and he knows that Bruce understands him. Probably already knew.

The hand in his hair lets go and reaches beneath him, curling around his cock, and he cries out immediately at the shock of sensation. It doesn't take much, just a minute of that hand, and Bruce still taking him, still holding him slightly up with that one hand on his chest. Then he's shouting loud enough to slightly echo as he comes, spilling through Bruce's fingers and onto — the knowledge makes him _shake_ — the car itself. He's only just started to go limp when Bruce gives a tightly restrained but drawn out, moan and follows him off the edge. He smiles, stroking at Bruce's arm with one hand and relaxing, letting Bruce's hips pump those last couple times to chase the aftershocks.

Bruce lingers for a little while, pressed down across his back and stroking his side with the knuckles of one hand, breathing hot and deliberately slowly against his shoulder. He twitches and gives a little sigh as Bruce does finally pull away and out of him, but refuses to get up quite so quickly. He turns his head to watch, and then ends up smiling and raising an eyebrow as Bruce tugs the suit back up over his waist.

"You're just going to have to take that off again," he points out, voice lazy and soft with afterglow. "Why get dressed? Not like everyone who could come through hasn't seen your butt at some point or another."

Bruce winces, and then leans down and collects his clothes off of the ground, dropping them down beside his head. "It's a matter of respect," is his only answer, before Bruce leans in and catches him in a very brief kiss. "I'll wipe the video while you clean up."

It takes him the span of Bruce turning around and heading for the computer to fully process that, and then he pushes up, twisting around on the car to call, "Save it! I want records!"

Bruce flicks a hand in acknowledgement, and he's _pretty_ sure that means that he'll get a copy of the video somewhere or other. He grins and collects his clothes, heading for the showers without actually putting anything on; he'll do that once he's clean. Then, he can come back and clean the Batmobile back to its shine, so no one knows what happened.

Just this once, since he's getting that video, he won't even ask why he's the one that's tasked with clean up.


End file.
